


they were there when i woke up this morning (i'll be dead before the day is done)

by hellstrider



Series: Seven Devils Verse [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, The Beginning, exorcist AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:35:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22537120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: "I love the way you just sit in the corner andbrood."
Series: Seven Devils Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621591
Comments: 8
Kudos: 150





	they were there when i woke up this morning (i'll be dead before the day is done)

**Author's Note:**

> little prologue i guess
> 
> tumblr: thebardjaskier

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and _brood.”_

And Geralt lifts his gaze from the ruby-red beads of the rosary, 

Glittering like so many drops of _blood_ where it wraps around his brutal hand,

To find a _fucking -_

 _Priestling_ watching him.

A priestling with _bright_ , sky-blue eyes,

With windswept, chestnut hair,

A _young,_ boyishly angular face, sharp and _innocent_ all at once,

And his collar is starchy and _brand-fucking-new,_

And he smells of _myrrh_ and _cedar_ ,

Of _holy smoke_ and _rosewater,_

And he’s _beautiful_ , beautiful in the way all _innocent_ , pure, _naive_ things are,

So Geralt tips back in his seat, 

Tosses back the rest of his whiskey,

Then rasps, “fuck off, priest,” 

But,

“They said you’d be difficult,”

“Hm,”

And then _the_ _priestling is_ \- fucking _sitting down_ , and Geralt is _so goddamn tired,_ is weary in the way he feels down to his _steel-strapped bones_ , but the priestling is vibrating with energy and _immovable_ , goddamned _determination_ when he slides into the chair across the table,

And they’re in some bar just outside Oradea, at the very edge of Romania, where Geralt had chased a demon as it _burnt_ its way through _twelve children_ , left behind twelve _corpses,_

Until it’d met _Geralt_ , who’d burnt through the _demon_ , 

And this priestling looks at Geralt like he’s some kind of _miracle_ , with a glimmer of _awe_ in his sky-blue eyes, and -

“Idolatry is a sin,” Geralt grunts, and the priestling’s expressive brow furrows; “I’m not who you think I am, priest.”

“Geralt of Rivia? Disciple of the Grand Equalizer? _Butcher_ of the _demon_ of Blaviken?”

And Geralt grinds his teeth until it _burns_ , slides a thumb over the beads of his rosary, counts _one, two, three,_

“Who told you where I was?”

“I,” the priestling flounders, “promised not to tell,”

“ _Let me guess_ ,” and Geralt tilts his head, narrows his eyes, “wears white and black, smells like lilac and gooseberries?”

“That’s _so_ oddly _specific_ ,” the priestling remarks, “ _gooseberries_? What even _is_ that?”

“So it _was_ Yennefer.”

“ _Look_ ,”

“No, _you_ look, _priest_ ,” and Geralt leans across the table, nostrils furling, but the priestling reeks of _nothing_ but _cedar_ , of _myrrh_ , of _awe_ , not for a _moment_ of _fear_ , “I don’t know what you _want_ \- I don’t _care_. But you won’t find it _here_ , I can promise you that,”

But the priestling’s gaze is _fierce_ ,

Stupidly _awestruck_ ,

 _Determined_ to the point of _foolishness_ ,

As he leans _towards_ Geralt,

And says, all _wonder_ , all _misplaced_ , damned _romanticism_ ; 

“I already _did_ , White Wolf,”

And,

Geralt can’t seem to tear his gaze away from those sky-blue eyes,

As his hand _tightens_ around the rosary,

And something like _Knowing_ settles deep in the pit of his gut.


End file.
